Coming Home
by shadowycat
Summary: An accident has robbed John Watson of his memory. Can he find his way back home? Told from Watson's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**Coming Home**

**Part One**

As the newsboy hawked his wares in a shrill voice, I stood on the street corner and gaped witlessly at my face on the front of the newspaper he held in his hand. At least it appeared to be my face. Though it was far better groomed, it certainly resembled the face I'd seen looking back at me from every shop window I glanced into as I slowly made my way across the city of London. I fished in my pockets for the proper amount of change, hoping that I had enough left. When I found that I did, I quickly exchanged it for the paper that I suddenly had to own.

The caption under the picture urgently requested any information leading to the whereabouts of a Dr. John Watson and promised a sizable reward if anyone who knew such information would present themselves at 221b Baker Street immediately and share what they knew with a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

My hands tightened on the fragile sheets of newsprint as I raised my eyes and gazed unseeingly across the busy street. As far as I knew, I'd come into being a mere three days ago in a medical ward with two shillings and three pence in my pocket, and absolutely no idea of who or what I was, in my mind. Those who'd been treating me seemed to have no more information than I, except that I'd been involved in some sort of accident involving a hansom cab, which had resulted in my receiving a rather severe blow to the head.

Once I'd felt capable of moving, I left the hospital for the wide and terrifying world outside. I probably should have remained in their care for awhile longer, if for no other reason than I didn't have any idea where I should go, but some irresistible impulse drove me back out into the streets. In the back of my mind, I knew that someone was counting on me to complete a task, and I couldn't bear the idea of failing him. Unfortunately, I no longer had the slightest idea what that task was or who I might be failing if I didn't complete it.

So I wandered, hoping that something would come back to me, and grateful that the weather was warm enough that sleeping out of doors didn't become a fatal hardship. I'd virtually exhausted my meager funds and was beginning to feel rather desperate when I came across the newsboy with my first glimmer of hope clutched in his somewhat grimy hands.

I stared down at the newspaper once more. Dr. John Watson. Carefully, I considered the name, hoping for some indication that it was indeed my own, but after thinking it over for a time, I reluctantly had to admit that as far as I knew I'd never heard it before. Equally unfamiliar were the names of Baker Street or Sherlock Holmes. Somewhat disheartened, I folded the paper and tucked it under my arm. Even if nothing about the names it held seemed familiar, I decided that it was still the best lead I'd found to discovering my identity, and it hardly seemed as if I could lose by inquiring about it. So I asked directions at a nearby tobacconist and, upon discovering that the address was quite close, I struck out for Baker Street as swiftly as I could.

_oooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo oooooooooooo_

A few minutes later, I found myself standing in front of the address from the newspaper. I stared at it intently for some time, hoping that I might recognize something about it. However, to my disappointment, this particular residence didn't appear any different from any of the other buildings that made up the block. Its stone façade was clean and well cared for, and its black door was shiny with fresh paint. It certainly seemed a pleasant and comfortable house, but it held no more familiarity for me than any other place I'd seen over the past few days.

A sense of gloom settled upon me as I stood on the pavement, trying to decide what to do next. Perhaps what had seemed at first to be such a great clue to my identity was going to turn out to be nothing but a dead end after all. Surely if this was my home then I ought to recognize something about it, but I didn't. So bitter was my disappointment that I almost turned away without ringing the bell. But as I started to leave, the plain fact that I had nowhere else to go turned me back again. Having come this far, I told myself firmly, it wouldn't make sense to leave without at least speaking to someone inside.

So I stepped up to the entry and rang the bell. The wait was only a moment before the door was opened by a young girl in a maid's apron and cap. She stared at me in amazement then her face broke into a wide smile, and she seized my arm and pulled me inside.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, sir! Thank heavens you've come back. We've all been ever so worried!"

Once inside with the door shut behind me, the girl released my arm and propelled me toward a staircase on one side of a dim hallway giving me no time to get a proper look at my surroundings. "Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Holmes are upstairs in your sitting room. You should go up right away and tell them you're back, sir. Mr. Holmes has been clear out of his mind. Everyone has been looking everywhere for you." Her tone took on a slightly chiding edge, and a momentary feeling of embarrassment washed over me as if I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't.

Still, encouraged by her certainty that I was indeed Dr. Watson, I gave her a slightly hesitant smile and started up the stairs. I glanced around as I climbed, but, as was the case outside the building, I had no sense that I'd ever seen any of it before.

When I reached the top of the staircase, I found myself confronted with several closed doors and no idea which one of them would lead to the sitting room the maid had mentioned. As I was trying to decide which door to try first, I realized that I could hear voices coming from behind the one directly in front of me.

I took a step closer to the door and listened intently. The voices were clearly a man's and a woman's. Though I couldn't make out exactly what they were saying, their tone seemed to indicate that they were arguing about something. As I eavesdropped unashamedly, trying to understand their conversation, the man's voice began to seem somewhat familiar, the first thing in days that had. Could this be Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Did I know him after all? Perhaps all I had to do was open this door and everything would come back to me, and this nightmarish existence would at last be over.

Now greatly encouraged, I knocked, and when that splendid voice called out for me to enter, I opened the door and stepped inside. My first impression of the sitting room, what I could see of it through a cloud of rather poisonous smoke, was one of extreme disorder with papers strewn everywhere, clothes hanging off the backs of chairs, and books piled in untidy stacks on every available surface including the floor.

Amidst this chaos were a man and a woman. The woman, well-dressed and of medium height, stood by the fireplace with her hands clasped in front of her and a somewhat exasperated expression on her open face. She seemed a perfectly amiable, yet ordinary sort of person, not so different from many others I'd passed on the streets of London over the last few days.

The man, on the other hand, was a very different animal indeed. I could not recall ever seeing anyone quite like him, though I admit such an assertion didn't really mean much under the circumstances. Still I truly believed that the man I was now looking at would appear exceptional to anyone who saw him. He was tall and lean with a sharp featured and expressive face. His thick, dark hair was wildly disheveled as if he'd been running his fingers through it for hours. Currently, he was pacing back and forth in front of a large bow window with his tie askew and a cigarette dangling from one long-fingered hand.

There was something intensely alive about him. His movements were as fluid as a stalking cat and even as he turned to look at me with a pair of truly remarkable gray eyes, he never ceased moving. As compelling as I found him, to my deep disappointment, neither he nor the woman were known to me. Unsure of what to say to them, I simply stopped and stood awkwardly in the open doorway. As both of them looked at me, their faces lit up with identical expressions of joy, and they began to move toward me as one, their excited cries of welcome filling the air.

"Oh, Doctor!"

"Watson! Thank Heavens!"

As they converged on me, I experienced a sudden moment of panic and quickly held the picture in the newspaper up in front of me like a shield, blurting out, "Is this me, then? I…I'm not sure, you see."

At my words, they both ceased moving forward and simply stared at me. The woman covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide as could be. While the man, who'd been so full of energy and motion, became as still as a statue for as long as it took me to breathe in and out three times, then he murmured almost too softly for me to hear. "So that explains it. Oh, my dear Watson, what have I done?"

"Then I am John Watson?" I asked. "You're sure? And you are Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson? The maid said that's who I'd find up here."

The woman was the first to collect herself. She bustled forward and took me firmly by the arm. Favoring me with a soothing smile, she led me to the sofa by the fireplace, as the man hurriedly removed a pile of newspapers to clear a spot for me to sit down.

"Of course, you're Dr. John Watson. No one who knows you would ever doubt it," she said, the slight burr in her speech giving a comforting feel to her words. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, your landlady, and this gentleman is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, your friend and fellow lodger for nigh on three years. Do you really not recognize us?"

As I shook my head regretfully, the man tossed his handful of newspapers aside and swept a similar pile off of a nearby chair before throwing himself into it and staring at me intently. His eyes, rimmed with dark smudges of fatigue, were full of concern as they raked over me from head to toe, pausing to take note of the now rather disreputable bandage that covered my brow, my torn and blood spattered clothing, and the several days' growth of beard on my cheeks.

He pressed his fingertips to his lips for a moment before speaking.

"As Mrs. Hudson says, there is no doubt that you're John Watson, though clearly much has befallen you since you left here three days ago to run what should have been a simple errand."

I stared at the man. I wanted to believe him, yet I needed more evidence than the word of a man I'd never to my knowledge seen before. "I don't mean to doubt you, but I'd really like to have proof of what you say."

"Oh, Doctor, really…" the woman began, but the man cut her off with nothing more than a raising of his hand.

"All right," he said softly. Reaching up he tapped his left shoulder. "John Watson has a rather spectacular scar, here, on his left shoulder. It's a reminder of his military service and was obtained during the Afghan war."

Automatically mimicking his movement, my hand rose and caressed my left shoulder, feeling a slightly prominent knot of flesh beneath my clothing. I vaguely remembered seeing a scar there when I was being checked for injuries after the accident. "Yes," I admitted. "I noticed a scar and wondered how I'd come by it, but many people have scars."

"Not like that one," said Holmes. "But there is another proof I can offer you. Something no one else has." He jumped to his feet and crossed the room to an appallingly messy desk. Rummaging around in it for a moment, he extracted a small box file. Flipping the file open, he fingered the contents, and removed a small card. Then he grabbed ink and a sheet of writing paper from amidst the chaos and took everything to a table near the window, on which the remains of a morning meal still sat.

Shoving the plates and dishes aside, he beckoned me to join him. When I did, he placed a hand on my shoulder, gently pressed me down into a chair and placed the card before me. Mystified, I stared down at the small card and tried to make sense of what I saw. It contained the name John Watson and several dirty black splotches that were a total mystery to me.

I glanced up at him in confusion. "Should this mean something to me?" I asked.

He lightly squeezed my shoulder, then pulled out the chair next to my own and sat in it. Instead of answering me, he turned to the woman. "Mrs. Hudson, would you please remove these dishes and bring something for Watson to eat? Are you hungry, Watson? Forgive me, but you look as if you haven't eaten in days."

I hadn't had much to eat recently and the thought of food set my mouth to watering. "Actually I haven't eaten anything today, though I did yesterday, once. I didn't have very much money with me, and I had to be careful how I spent it," I admitted.

"My goodness," exclaimed Mrs. Hudson as she cleared the table and put all the dishes onto a tray. "You must be starving. I'll be back in a moment with something good for you both." She eyed Holmes shrewdly. "You haven't exactly been eating as you should the past few days either, Mr. Holmes." Picking up the tray, she swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Once she was gone, I returned my attention to Holmes, who was staring at me as if he wished he could see inside me. For some reason those clear, bright eyes of his made me a bit uncomfortable. It felt as if they were trying to convey some message that I was just too slow and dim-witted to understand, so I avoided them by dropping my gaze to the small card once more.

"What are these smudges?" I asked.

"Those smudges are your fingerprints, my dear Watson."

"What are fingerprints?" I asked, further perplexed.

Holmes held up his hand palm toward me and pointed to the tip of his index finger. "The lines and whorls on the tips of your fingers have a distinct pattern. So far as has been determined, and I will admit the science of identification by fingerprints is still in its infancy, every person, without exception, has a set of prints that are unique from those of any other. So far Scotland Yard has not officially embraced the technique of using fingerprints as a means of identification, but I have no doubt they will come around in time. Evidence of its usefulness has been mounting for years all around the world. I myself have made a study of the theories and techniques involved, and I am convinced of its usefulness as a tool in the solving of crimes."

"Are you a policeman then?" I asked. For some reason, such a profession didn't feel quite right for him, yet it certainly sounded as if he had quite an interest in criminology.

He shook his head. "No, although, I do collaborate with the police from time to time. I am an independent consulting detective, the only one of my kind, to my knowledge. I take on cases that intrigue me, that provide a difficult challenge or pose an interesting puzzle, cases that often hold little interest for the more mundane views of the police. For some time now, you have assisted me in this venture, and your assistance has always been invaluable."

Nothing he said sounded the least bit familiar even though he was crediting me with aiding him. "I wish I could remember helping you. It all sounds rather exciting." I admitted.

A smile flitted across Holmes's face so fast I wasn't quite certain I'd seen it. "At times it has been exciting, occasionally a bit too much so, and I, too, wish you could remember it all. We will find a way to retrieve your memory, never fear, but in the meantime, let me give you the proof you seek that you truly are Dr. John H. Watson, my dear friend and colleague."

"All right," I said. "What do I do?"

Holmes took my right hand in his left and cradled it gently. "Allow me," he said, as he carefully inked the tips of my fingers and pressed them firmly to the blank sheet of paper creating marks that looked like those on the card in front of me. Once he was finished, he gave me a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the excess ink from my hands. While I was doing so, he produced a small magnifying glass from yet another pocket and bent to look at first the marks we had just made and then at the ones that the card identified as John Watson's.

"As I said, the two sets of prints are identical." He passed me the glass and insisted that I examine them myself, which I attempted to do. Although I had no experience in making such a comparison, it certainly seemed to me as if the marks on the paper corresponded in every detail with the marks previously imprinted on the card from the file.

I straightened up and handed him back his magnifier. "They do seem to be the same."

Holmes nodded. "Then do you accept that you are indeed John Watson, who has resided here with me in these rooms at Baker Street for some years?"

"I suppose I must, though I still don't recall any of it."

Holmes seemed pleased that I'd accepted his proof. "One step at a time, my dear boy, one step at a time."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson returned with plates piled high with food, and I was grateful not to have to think about anything for a brief while except how hungry I was and how mouthwateringly splendid was the food now placed before me. Eating my fill occupied my attention for some time, and I noticed that Holmes ate with an appetite that equaled my own.

Once my hunger was assuaged, Holmes insisted on removing the horrid looking bandage from my forehead and, when he'd satisfied himself that the wound beneath was healing properly, he replaced it with a fresh wrap. Then I was bundled off to soak in a warm bath and divest myself of several days' growth of beard. As soon as I was again dressed in wonderfully clean clothes that fitted me impeccably, I took a proper look at myself in the mirror and had to admit that I was the spitting image of the face in the newspaper.

The entire body of evidence presented to me all pointed incontrovertibly to one single truth. I was definitely Dr. John Watson of 221b Baker Street, London, to continue to doubt it would be ludicrous. As happy as I was to once more have a name, I wished even more fervently to remember who John Watson was, yet somehow I thought that wouldn't be as easy a thing to accomplish.

A shadow crossed my features. What would I do if my memory never returned? Was I to spend the rest of my days wondering about my past, living off the charity of others, searching each face I saw for some speck of familiarity? Could anyone live that way? Could I?

I turned away from the mirror and looked around the small bedroom that I had been told was mine. I recognized all the items in the room for what they were, yet none of them felt as if they belonged to me in particular. The clothes fit, but they raised no feeling of possession in me. Neither did the furnishings of the room, and I had to admit that if I'd slept for years in this specific bed, I certainly had no knowledge of it. Neither the books on the shelves nor the pictures on the wall struck a chord of familiarity within me. I might as well have been standing in any anonymous hotel room for all my surroundings meant to me.

With a sigh, I left the room and headed downstairs once more, trying to reassure myself that things would get better. It hadn't been that long since the accident, and I'd only now begun to surround myself with things that I ought to know. I shouldn't give up hope too soon.

_ooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooo_

When I reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the sitting room, I found Holmes engaged in conversation with yet another stranger I probably ought to know. Indeed the man leaped to his feet upon my entrance and came forward to speak to me immediately.

"There you are, Doctor! You led us quite a merry chase around the city. I'm glad to see we've finally caught up to you."

I turned my mystified gaze to Holmes, hoping for both an introduction and an explanation for this curious speech. I was not to be disappointed.

"Ah, Watson, this is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," he said by way of introducing the small, dark man, who was now hovering by my right elbow. "He's been leading the search for you for the past few days." Holmes smiled at me. "You look much more yourself now, a shave, a bath and a fresh change of clothing seems to have done you a world of good. Are you feeling better?" he asked as he too came forward to stand at my side.

"Yes, thank you," I replied. "I do feel much better." Then I turned to the detective and extended a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. Did you and your men really trail me across London?"

Lestrade exchanged rapid glances with Holmes as he hesitantly reached out and took my hand in his. I imagine that Holmes told him that I'd lost my memory, but seeing the truth of it firsthand seemed to throw him off his stride for a moment. He recovered quickly however.

"Er…yes, Doctor, we did. We were told about the cab accident, of course, though at the time, we didn't know that you were the gentleman involved in it. Once we'd cleared up at the scene, one of our men went in search of the injured occupant, but when he arrived at the hospital, they told him that you'd slipped out as soon as they turned their backs on you."

I nodded. "I don't really remember much about that except that I felt an overwhelming need to leave. I thought I had something important to do. The problem was that once I got out into the city again and began to walk, I realized that I couldn't remember what that important something was."

"Neither the doctor nor the nurse who attended you mentioned that you had lost your memory, and, of course, they didn't know your name which slowed us down a bit, as you can imagine," said Lestrade.

"Yet you realized it was me somehow?" I asked. "You said you were tracking me across London."

"We didn't know you were missing until Mr. Holmes reported it the next day. Putting that information together with the physical description we got from the staff at the hospital, which matched you very well, we thought it likely that you were the victim of the accident, but by then, you had quite a lead on us, and we were never able to catch up. As near as we could tell, you did seem to be heading for Baker Street though."

"Really?" This information interested me greatly. I knew I was reasonably close to Baker Street when I saw my picture in the paper, but I put that down to coincidence. If I really was heading for home in such a literal manner, it was done quite unconsciously. The idea was encouraging though, if I subconsciously knew where home was, perhaps everything else I now couldn't remember was still locked in my mind, and all I needed to do was find the right key in order to release it.

"It certainly appeared so to us, and since you apparently found your way home on your own, you must have known where home was, at least instinctively. Hopefully that means your memories are still lurking in there somewhere," said the inspector with a smile.

I nodded in agreement. "I was just thinking much the same thing myself."

Inspector Lestrade glanced at Holmes who had remained rather quiet through this exchange. "If they are still in there, I'm sure Mr. Holmes will find some way to reach them. I've never yet seen anyone quite as good at pulling rabbits out of hats as he is."

"Ha!" exclaimed Holmes in response to Lestrade's comment, then he summoned a quick smile for the Inspector and a slightly longer lasting one for me. "I shall certainly do my best to spark Watson's memory, but unfortunately memories are not like your garden variety rabbits, Lestrade, and pulling them from the injured brain may not be an easy thing to manage. Still, I will not rest until Watson has been returned to us in mind as well as body."

_oooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooo_

Once Inspector Lestrade had gone, Sherlock Holmes and I were left alone in the sitting room. In my absence, some semblance of order had been returned to the room, the clothing and stray papers had been tidied away and the dishes from luncheon had been removed as well. Holmes had tidied his person also; I noted that his hair was now neatly combed and his clothing was immaculate, the signs of fatigue remained, but they could hardly be remedied without a good restful sleep.

Unsure what to do next, I crossed the room to the window and stared down into the street. Outside, the world bustled along in much the same manner as it always did. Carriages drove up and down the street in stately procession, pedestrians moved about in front of the shops, entering some, exiting others, wandering in groups, pairs and singly. Their movements ebbed and flowed in a hypnotic rhythm, like blood moving through the heart of some gigantic beast. I could clearly remember being part of such a crowd, but for now I felt quite grateful to have found my way out of it.

Turning back to the room behind me, I found Holmes standing by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and watching me. It was understandable that people would watch me closely at the moment and I supposed I would get used to it in time, but it did make me rather uncomfortable. It was yet another reason to hope that my memory returned sooner rather than later.

I sat down on the settee, and Holmes came forward and joined me, offering me an open cigarette case. "Would you care for a cigarette, Watson?"

"Yes, thank you," I said impulsively, though I didn't actually remember smoking. The case seemed to hold more than one brand of cigarette and Holmes smiled and nodded to himself when I selected one marked Bradley, Oxford Street. He didn't remark on my choice however, instead he simply offered me a light and then sat back and made himself comfortable next to me.

Smoking seems to be one of those actions that once learned can be done completely by rote because my body seemed to know exactly what to do and once I'd taken that first drag on the cigarette, it all felt completely natural to me and I continued without thinking any more about it.

Once the silence had stretched as far as I could stand to let it, I turned to Holmes and said, "I'm sorry, but I don't know what to call you. Mrs. Hudson introduced you as my friend Sherlock Holmes, and said we'd lived here together for almost three years, which would seem to indicate that we know each other fairly well, yet we don't seem to be on a first name basis. Since I arrived here this morning you've invariably referred to me as Watson, never as John. Why is that?"

"Yes, I suppose that would seem to indicate a lack of intimacy between us, but I assure you that isn't the case. We are… friends. In actuality, you are the truest, closest friend I have, or am ever likely to have, yet what you say is perfectly true. We fell into the habit of referring to each other by our last names when we first met and never fell out of it. Mostly my fault, I suppose, as I've never been overly fond of my first name and tend not to enjoy hearing it from anyone. The sole exception to that is my brother, Mycroft. As my elder brother, he insists upon the privilege of addressing me as Sherlock and so far, I've found no way to break him of the habit."

"Well, that explains that," I said with a smile. "You have a brother. Do I have any family?"

"You had an elder brother, as well, but he and your parents are long dead. I can give you the bare bones of your history, my dear Watson, but I'm afraid I am sketchy as to many of the details. We've never spent a great deal of time discussing either our upbringings or our general histories before we became acquainted. I know you spent your early years somewhere in the south of Scotland, near Edinburgh, I think, earned your medical degree at the University of London, joined the army, where you studied to become a surgeon, shipped out to India and on to Afghanistan. Once there, you served valiantly for a relatively short period before you were severely wounded, honorably discharged and sent back to London to live on a rather meager stipend.

"You were not long back, I believe, when a casual, common acquaintance, of whom I will always think fondly, introduced us. Since we were both somewhat lacking in funds at that time, we pooled our resources and took these rooms together. You concentrated on regaining your health and began to assist me with some of my cases as I built up my consulting business. That is a very short version of your history and ours together."

"I see. So, although I am a doctor, I don't currently practice medicine?"

"Your poor health kept you from pursuing your profession for some time, but lately, as your health has improved, I do believe you've been contemplating beginning to practice once more."

"Well, if those were my plans, they will have to wait until I regain my memory. I certainly can't practice a profession about which I know absolutely nothing." That thought discouraged me and I sat back and drew deeply on my cigarette.

Holmes, seeming to sense my bleak thoughts, leaned forward, placed a hand on my arm, and spoke most earnestly to me. "My dear, Watson, I told you I will find a way to restore your memory and I meant it. On this, you have my most solemn promise, and I always do my utmost to keep my promises. I intend to devote all my energy to this task and this alone until it is successfully completed."

His gray eyes stared into mine with a fiery intensity that spoke of something I didn't immediately understand although I was suddenly certain there was a deeper meaning behind his words, deeper and more personal. Clearly there was more to his determination to help me than could be explained by simple friendship, no matter how close. A suspicion began to nag at my thoughts. Could it be?

"Holmes, what was I doing when the accident occurred? You said I often assisted you in your work. Was I performing some task for you?"

Guilt flared hot and deep within his eyes in the instant before he veiled his gaze and turned away from me, and I knew that I'd discovered the true reason for his intense need for me to recover my memory. He believed my current condition was his fault.

Before he could speak, I hastened to add, "Because even if I was, that doesn't make what happened your responsibility."

Holmes got to his feet and crossed to the fireplace, tossing the remains of his cigarette into the grate and leaning for a moment against the mantle before turning abruptly to face me once more.

"I would not expect you to blame me for anything, Watson, as it is not in your nature to do so, but I cannot help but blame myself for your predicament. If I had not once again involved you in my work, you would not have been injured.

"Yes, you were on an errand for me. One that should have been relatively safe, one I could have sent any stranger to do, but instead I laid it on your shoulders because I've become too used to taking advantage of your amiable nature."

"Oh, surely I volunteered to go," I said. "If I was accustomed to assisting you and you were accustomed to allowing me to do so, why should you think to enlist a stranger when I was there and willing to help? It was a carriage accident, Holmes. Such a thing could befall anyone at any time. There's no way you could predict such an event. You are not at fault!"

Holmes sighed and lit yet another cigarette, flipping the spent match into the hearth and taking a deep drag before looking at me again.

"Logically, I know you're right. However, this incident has forced me to acknowledge that logic and rationality do not always make up the totality of any event. Although I know intellectually that I could not have possibly predicted what happened to you, nevertheless, I do feel responsible. At the very least, I should have put the hounds on your tail much more quickly. The failure on that point can be laid squarely at no one's feet but mine."

He returned to the settee, his abrupt movements clearly expressing his growing agitation. "You were to deliver my message and then meet me at a prearranged location. From there, we, in concert with Inspector Gregson and several of his men, were to move in on the criminals once they took the bait. The criminals showed up, but you did not.

"Since the message you were to deliver was sent to an innocent third party who could be relied upon to pass it on to our quarry, I knew that you were unlikely to have come to harm at our enemies' hands, so I assumed that some other matter had delayed you, and we proceeded with our plans without your help. But I should not have done so, Watson. I should have known better!"

As his voice rose, he jumped to his feet once more and began pacing in front of the fireplace, smoking furiously.

"I should have been more concerned at your absence, knowing that only something of grave consequence would have kept you from meeting with me as we'd planned, but I was too caught up in the culmination of my case. My single-minded compulsion to bring my plans to fruition kept me from giving proper attention to that which should have held premier importance for me.

"It wasn't until much later, when I returned to Baker Street to discover that you weren't there, that I truly began to worry. Mrs. Hudson knew nothing of your whereabouts, and there was no message from you to explain where you'd gone. I paced the floor for hours until the light of dawn finally arrived without you. It was only then that I went to the police. I never should have held off even that long. I should have raised the alarm the moment I returned home and found you missing. My delay was unforgivable."

"Nonsense! Of course it's forgivable. Indeed, there is nothing to forgive! You acted as you saw fit. Calling in the police earlier rather than later would have made no difference. The accident had long occurred, and I was already trying to make my way through London by the time you returned home. Changing your actions in any way would not have changed the outcome." Impulsively, I rose and went to him, grasping him by the arm and squeezing it lightly. His agitation and distress bothered me greatly and I instinctively wanted to comfort him.

He stiffened in my grasp very briefly before hesitantly placing his hand over mine for an instant. The warmth of his touch, the brief caress of his fingers on mine, felt wonderful and when he removed his hand a moment later, I felt its loss keenly. Suddenly his nearness overwhelmed me, and I ached for something I couldn't name. I didn't understand the quick surge of longing I was experiencing, so to cover my confusion, I removed my hand from his arm and stepped back. We stared at each other in a silence full of unspoken meaning until he broke the mood and retreated to the fireplace.

"Thank you for your generosity, Watson," Holmes said softly, and I marveled at the level tone of his voice. I doubted that I could speak as calmly at the moment, but then I had no reason to think he'd experienced any of the same confusing feelings that I had just felt.

I took my place on the settee once more and carefully cleared my throat. "I just don't think either of us should waste our time with recriminations. I don't blame you for anything that's happened, and I don't want you to blame yourself either. What's done is done. Now we simply need to find some way to deal with it."

"You're quite right, my dear Watson. Looking to change the past is no good. We must move forward and hope that by doing so we can find a way to make things right once more."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

"_Watson, come back! I need you."_

I woke suddenly the next morning, momentarily convinced that someone was calling me, yet as I lay still and listened intently it became quite obvious that no one was. Apparently, I'd either imagined or, more likely, dreamed the summons, but no matter how I tried, I couldn't recall the substance of my dreams. Whatever thoughts had dominated my mind mere moments ago had now faded away completely in the light of another day.

I lay back against my pillow and idly watched the leafy shadow of the tree outside my window as it gently shimmered across the ceiling above my head. I had to admit that I felt comfortable here in this room, surrounded by these things, yet there was still something that didn't feel quite right about my being here. Though for the life of me, I couldn't determine just what that something was.

With a sigh, I gave up trying to figure it out, got out of the bed and began to put on my clothes. Once I'd made myself presentable, I followed my nose down to the sitting room where a wonderful breakfast was waiting for me, kept warm on the sideboard in silver chafing dishes.

I breakfasted alone. The door to the room that I assumed led to Holmes's bedroom remained closed as I finished my meal and reached for the newspaper which was neatly folded and sitting on the sideboard next to a bowl of pink roses. When I automatically bent my head and inhaled the heady fragrance of the flowers, a picture of amazingly vivid detail sprang into being in my mind. Quite suddenly, the room around me faded away and all I could see was a small stone cottage covered in climbing roses with a slender blonde woman standing in the doorway smiling down at me.

I gasped and jerked backwards in my chair. As I did so, the room around me came back into focus once more, though I could still recall the vision of the cottage in my mind. A gentle hand touched me on the shoulder, and I looked up to see a faintly frowning Sherlock Holmes, in his dressing gown, looking down at me. I lowered my eyes and noticed that his door was now standing open, though I hadn't heard him enter the room.

"Watson, are you all right?" he asked.

I nodded. "I think so. I… had a vision." I turned back to look at the bowl of flowers. "When I smelled the roses I suddenly saw an image of a cottage covered in them with a woman standing in the doorway. It was so real that for a moment, I thought I was actually there." I turned eagerly back to Holmes. "Could it be a memory? Do you know of such a place?"

"Can you describe it any more exactly?" asked Holmes as he seated himself in the chair next to mine and settled all of his attention on me.

I closed my eyes and the image returned. "The cottage is made of gray stone, with a thatched roof and a large climbing rosebush that covers most of the front wall and hangs over the door. A woman, blonde and slender, is standing in the doorway and looking down at me. I feel I should know her..." I opened my eyes and appealed to him. "…but I'm not certain who she is."

"You say she's looking down at you? Are you lying on the ground?" He watched me closely, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

I frowned and closed my eyes once more. "I don't think so. I think she's simply taller than I am. Holmes! Could she be my mother?" I asked excitedly, opening my eyes once more.

Holmes gazed regretfully back at me. "It's possible, but I can't confirm it. From your coloring, I could certainly postulate that your mother was blonde, but you've never described either of your parents to me, nor shown me any images of them. If you are looking up at this woman, it undoubtedly could be a memory from childhood, which would make the likelihood that she is your mother even greater. I think there's no doubt that it's a genuine memory, however.

"Smells can often spark very vivid memories and can frequently provide much more accurate triggers than visual cues. This is encouraging, Watson. Encouraging, indeed." He smiled at me and I smiled back, greatly relieved to have finally remembered something, even though I still wasn't exactly certain what it meant.

Holmes reached for the chafing dish and began to fill his plate. Once he'd selected what he wished, he set it before him and laid a napkin in his lap. When he picked up his fork, instead of using it to lift food to his mouth, he pointed it at me and said, "After breakfast, you and I are going out."

At the moment I couldn't imagine where he thought we should go, so I raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Oh? Where are we going?" Not that I had any objection to going out, of course, it's not as if I had any other plans nor the hope of making any in the near future. Still, I wondered what he had in mind.

Holmes took a bite of his eggs and smiled a knowing sort of smile. "Everywhere, my dear Watson. We are going everywhere."

And so we did.

It was a truly lovely day and as soon as we stepped out of Baker Street onto the pavement and began to walk, I could feel my spirits rise. When Holmes slipped his arm through mine and we began to step along in tandem, it felt so perfectly natural and right, as if we'd always moved as one being instead of two.

The first place he took me was the local barber shop which we both apparently frequented. I had to admit that the smells that greeted me when I stepped inside did seem familiar, but I didn't have any immediate memory of ever having been inside this particular shop before. The barber had no customers when we arrived and he came forward and shook my hand, saying that he'd read in the newspaper that I was missing and was glad to see that I had returned safely. Then he asked me if I was there for a haircut. I told him that although I no doubt needed one, I thought it might be better to wait until my injury was healed enough for me to remove the bandage from my forehead.

He murmured his agreement and turned to Holmes instead. "Then are you here to get your hair cut today, Mr. Holmes? I would have thought…next week?" He seemed a bit confused by our presence as it appeared that Holmes was a man of very regular habits. One would think that if we came to a barber shop that one of us at least would be there to avail ourselves of the barber's services, but apparently that was not the case at all.

Holmes nodded sharply. "Quite so. I will be in next week as usual. Neither Watson nor myself are here for barbering today. While he was away he was involved in an accident which has regrettably resulted in the loss of his memory. I am attempting to reacquaint him with those places where he felt most comfortable in the hopes that seeing them again might bring his memories back."

This was a very logical next step, of course, and though he hadn't told me precisely what he had in mind before we left the flat, it had occurred to me as we'd started out that visiting places particularly well known to me might be the purpose of our outing. As he explained our mission to the barber, I found I was rather gratified to have guessed correctly. Although I had no real reason to believe it to be true, I had the feeling that my being able to figure out what Sherlock Holmes intended before he acted upon it was a rare accomplishment for me.

"Ah," said the barber, nodding in understanding, and he turned to me. "And does anything about my shop seem familiar to you, Doctor?"

"Well, yes…and no," I replied. "I mean, the smells do seem very familiar. I'm quite certain that I have smelled them before, but I'm sorry to say that there's nothing about you or your shop that seems particularly familiar to me."

"Ah," said the barber again, and he seemed a bit disappointed.

We turned to go, but as we got to the door, Holmes paused with his hand on the door handle and swept his free arm wide, pointing back toward the barber chairs. "Which chair is your favorite, Watson, the one near the window or the one next to the wall? Quick, don't think, just tell me, which do you prefer?"

"Uh…the wall, I think." I said as quickly as I could, and as I spoke, I did have the feeling that it was the right answer, though I couldn't have said just why. I turned to look at Holmes, hoping I'd chosen correctly and his expression of satisfaction told me that I had.

Holmes swung the door open and gestured for me to precede him. "Excellent Watson, shall we continue? We have a lot of ground to cover today."

As it turned out, we did indeed have a lot of ground to cover as Holmes seemed determined that we poke our noses into every shop between Baker Street and Piccadilly. We visited book sellers, tobacconists, haberdashers, if it was a shop that I might conceivably have looked into once in my life, we went there. I found all of it immensely interesting, but none of it triggered so much as a flicker of recognition in my mind.

By the time we briefly stopped for lunch in a nice little pub that was also quite new to me, I was ready to give up the quest for my past and head back to Baker Street for a bit of a rest, but Holmes was like a hound on the trail of a fox. Until we'd covered every possible spot in the city where I was known to spend time, he did not wish to falter. He would take me into a new shop, club, office or hall, pause expectantly, and when I invariably shook my head, he would straighten his spine and herd me out and on again.

Overall, he showed more energy and endurance than the most highly praised thoroughbred at Ascot, while, by mid-afternoon, I was feeling more and more like an old nag who'd been put out to pasture. Still despite all my tiredness, I was beginning to believe that I would follow Sherlock Holmes to the ends of the earth.

There was just something truly extraordinary about the man. His eyes sparked with an inner fire whenever he turned and looked at me, questioning whether anything he'd done had made a difference, and I felt increasingly guilty every time I had to shake my head no and watch the light in his eyes dim a bit more. As disappointing as my failure to find anything familiar was to me, I somehow felt it was an even heavier burden for my companion.

So I slogged on, following the elegant set of his shoulders, the sharp turn of his dark head, walking first this way then that on a wave of his expressive hand. If he wasn't going to give up, then neither was I, and so we pressed onward together.

Finally, while we were crossing through Hyde Park for the second, or perhaps the third time, I spotted a quiet bench a bit off the well trodden path with a lovely view of the Serpentine. Without consciously deciding to do so, I veered away from Holmes, left the path, and headed directly for the bench. Something within me was guiding my steps for the first time all day, and I felt a sense of anticipation as I reached my goal and sat down.

As Holmes joined me and sat at my side, I turned to him with a note of excitement in my voice. "I know this place, Holmes. I know I've spent time here." As I spoke, a memory came to me, faint, still more a feeling than a picture, like the one I was more and more sure was of my mother. I frowned and closed my eyes, trying to squeeze every nuance I could from what was only a glimmer in my mind. Distantly, I could hear the slap of the water, feel the touch of a breeze lift my hair, and the firm press of a shoulder leaning companionably against mine, and suddenly I knew... "No," I whispered. "It's not just me. We've spent time here. You were with me, weren't you?"

Delighted at my success, I opened my eyes and when I looked at Holmes, I received my reward for all our travails of the day. For the light in his eyes was one of joy and satisfaction and seeing him so pleased gave me an odd sort of thrill deep in the very pit of my stomach, and I had a sudden strong feeling that making Sherlock Holmes happy was very important to me.

"Well done, Watson," he said softly. "Yes, we've often come here on quiet afternoons. This bench affords a clear view of the water, comfortable shade, and grants a measure of privacy from the many others who share the park on any given day. It's long been a favorite spot…"

As he talked, my thoughts began to drift along on the soothing sound of his voice and focused themselves on the physical appearance of his mouth as it formed words I no longer heard, and I found myself idly noting how perfectly shaped his lips were, thin but firm and of a delicate hue, and I mused at how pleased it was beginning to make me when he curved them into a smile and bestowed it on me.

A faint prickle of unease touched the back of my mind at the suddenly sensuous turn my thoughts had taken, but I dismissed it impatiently. Why shouldn't I admire him, I asked myself quite bluntly; he was an exceptionally handsome man, clever, immensely intelligent and energetic, surely both men and women admired him all the time. He was my friend and my fellow lodger, and though I didn't really remember him yet, even after the short acquaintance I did recall, I was completely convinced that I liked and admired him very much in all manner of different ways, and I firmly believed so would anyone else who was privileged to know him.

Suddenly a deep weariness descended on me and my head began to pound to the beat of my heart. I closed my eyes and raised a hand to rub at the bandage on my forehead, hoping to ease the pain, though knowing my actions were unlikely to be successful. We'd walked all over London today, and I had simply reached the end of my endurance.

At the gentle touch of a hand on my arm, I opened my eyes to see Holmes looking at me worriedly. "Watson? Are you in pain?" he asked.

I forced a smile but knew it probably came out more like a grimace. "A sudden headache is all. I think I'm just about worn through for today," I admitted reluctantly.

"I am sorry, old boy. I'm afraid that in my enthusiasm for returning your memories to you, I neglected to take into account that your injury is a very recent one, and that you might not be up to such a prolonged outing as I've forced on you. Of course, you need to rest. We should return to Baker Street at once."

He slid his hand down my arm and took my elbow in a firm grasp to assist me to my feet. "Thank you, Holmes. I do think I need to go home."

Moving slowly away from the bench, we headed for the closest main road through the park. Once on the pavement again, Holmes hailed a passing hansom. When it stopped next to us, he gestured for me to precede him, so I climbed into the cab and took my seat. As soon as he joined me and closed the folding doors over our feet, the driver flicked his whip at the horse and it started forward.

As the carriage jerked into motion, I suddenly found myself lost in a series of sharp fractured images that violently burst into my mind and totally overwhelmed me, blinding me completely to anything else. I saw myself moving along smoothly, rhythmically, then there was a sharp jolt, and suddenly I was swerving, falling, my hands reaching for something, anything but finding nothing but air to grasp. There was the abrupt cessation of movement mixed with the horrid grinding sounds of hard objects twisting against each other in ways they were never meant to. I felt a blinding stab of pain and my ears were assaulted by the screams of both humans and animals, some of them undeniably mine. And overlaying it all was the smell of horse sweat, fear…and something I knew instinctively could be nothing but blood.

Gradually, I became aware of my surroundings once more. The disorienting images and sickening movements that had filled my besieged mind were slowly being replaced with the smooth beat of living hooves against pavement and the gentle swaying of the carriage. Finally the images faded away completely leaving a dull ache in their place, and I came to realize that I was pressed to the chest of Sherlock Holmes with his strong arms wrapped comfortingly around me. I gasped for breath like a drowning man and burrowed tighter against him, feeling in that instant as if his arms were the only things keeping me from shattering like a broken china figurine.

When the cab came to a halt a few moments later, I lifted my head from Holmes's chest and tried to pull back out of his arms, but he refused to let me go completely, keeping a supporting arm wrapped loosely around my shoulders. I could feel my cheeks flaming with embarrassment at imposing myself on him in such a manner. When I found the courage to look him in the eye, what I saw looking back at me was not offense or upset but only the deepest caring and concern. I struggled to speak, to explain, but the words wouldn't come. As it turned out, I needn't have bothered, Holmes was one step ahead of me again.

"The accident?" he asked.

I nodded and placed a trembling hand on the smooth wood of the cab door, gripping it tightly, grounding myself in the present. "It all came back in a rush."

"I was an idiot to force you into a hansom cab again so soon, please say you'll forgive me, Watson. I don't know what's come over me. I seem to be making one unforgivable error after another in this matter."

I shook my head, instinctively hating to have him blame himself for anything. "You didn't force me into the cab. I was tired and grateful that I wouldn't have to walk all the way back to Baker Street. It never occurred to me that riding in a hansom again would bring the accident back so vividly."

"It should have occurred to me!" said Holmes, chagrin heavy in every word. "After all, what have I been trying to do all day but stimulate your memory by association? What could be a more violent association than riding in a cab such as the one in which you experienced such a dreadful accident? No, it won't do, Watson. The fault is mine, you must acknowledge it, and I must strive to do better."

By now, the violent impressions of the accident had receded, my trembling had ceased, and I felt much more myself again and less inclined than ever to place blame on my friend. "There's no need to be upset about this, Holmes. I'm not. In fact, I have to say I'm glad that it happened for it brought back my strongest recollection yet. It gives me real hope that everything I've lost may return again."

Holmes nodded and gave me a faint and slightly wistful smile. "I would not stifle your hopes for the world, my dear Watson. You always manage to see the good in every occurrence. It is simultaneously one of your most endearing and most frustrating qualities. Certainly bringing back any piece of your memory is a good thing, but I would have wished for a less painful way to bring it about."

Suddenly aware that we were keeping the curious cabbie waiting, Holmes thrust payment up to him through the small door in the hansom's roof, then he pushed the cab open, stepped to the pavement and turned to assist me. When the cab drove away, I watched it with a lighter heart. As exhausting as the day had been, I'd made real progress toward reclaiming my memory, and as far as I was concerned, that was all to the good.

_ oooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooo_

Once we'd regained the privacy of Baker Street, I went directly to my room for a rest. After my upsetting experience in the cab and my general state of tiredness, I was unsurprised to find that I slept quite deeply, awakening several hours later with the feeling that I'd just been dreaming of something important. Although I had the fleeting impression that Holmes had figured prominently in my dreams, I could not recall even the faintest detail no matter how hard I tried. So I gave up, accepting that my subconscious mind currently knew much more about me than my conscious one did, but that I had no means of forcing it to give up its secrets.

Still, as I rose and made myself presentable once more, I mused on the fact that Holmes, whether I was awake or asleep, seemed to hold a singularly important place in my life. I'd been drawn to him from the moment I opened the sitting room door and saw him prowling the room like a tiger in his lair, and today's outing had further cemented my devotion to the man. I knew without a doubt that if there was anyone at all who could help me recover my memories, it was Sherlock Holmes.

When I returned to the sitting room, I found Holmes standing in the bow window, staring out into the street and smoking a thin black pipe. From the thickness of the atmosphere in the room, I assumed that he'd been at it ever since I'd gone upstairs to sleep. Although I tried, I couldn't suppress a single cough as the smoke overwhelmed me, and I waved my hand in front of my face in a futile attempt to clear a passage of air for me to breathe as I crossed to a window and threw up the sash.

"How do you stand it in here?" I asked as I leaned out the window and sucked clearer air into my lungs.

Holmes looked startled, and then slightly apologetic, as he, too, opened a window and removed the pipe from his mouth. "Smoking helps me to concentrate on a problem, I'm afraid I didn't realize how thick the atmosphere was getting. Is that better?"

I nodded and moved to stand beside him. I hadn't seen him smoking a pipe before, only cigarettes. Yet there was something tantalizingly familiar in the aroma of the harsh smoke and the look of that pipe cradled in his hand as if it was a natural extension of it, his pale flesh contrasting sharply with its dark clay bowl.

Without thinking, I reached out and brushed my fingers along the side of the hand that held the pipe. "Do you smoke this pipe frequently? It seems familiar to me."

My touch seemed to freeze him in place for an instant, but when my fingers dropped away, releasing him, he took a single step back and moved over to lean against the mantelpiece. His pose was decidedly casual, but there was something suddenly tense in his manner. "It's one of my favorites. You've certainly seen me smoke it many times."

I nodded, wondering what had put him on edge. "That explains it then," I said. "I find it heartening when I recognize things."

"Of course, it would be, dear fellow. It's heartening to me, too," he replied. "Did you sleep well? Are you ready for some dinner? I told Mrs. Hudson to hold off serving until you'd come down. I wanted you to get whatever rest you needed to properly recover from our lengthy trek through the city."

"Thank you. I did sleep well. I believe I dreamed, but I cannot recall what about. I wish I could. I imagine my dreams could tell me quite a bit about myself."

"Dreams do seem to link together pieces of our experience and allow us to see them in a different light. Many people say that dreaming helps them to make connections that their conscious mind refuses to see."

"Do you find that to be true?" I asked curiously.

He gave a sigh and rubbed thoughtfully at his temple. "Perhaps…in part, though I prefer to make my connections in a more rational manner. Although I do not deny their usefulness on occasion, dreams are unpredictable and often totally illogical even if their root images can be explained by knowledge and experience. I choose to reason my way to an answer for a problem. That way I always know precisely how I arrive at a conclusion and can be better assured of its validity."

"Well, at this point I'll take any help that will point me toward my memories, logical or not, and yes," I added in answer to his earlier query. "I am quite hungry and would welcome some dinner."

Seeming more than ready to abandon the theoretical subject of dreams for the more concrete experience of a good hot meal, Holmes crossed the room and rang for dinner. Mrs. Hudson appeared with the food so quickly that I momentarily wondered if she hadn't been waiting outside the door for our summons. While she set things out, I busied myself with closing the newly opened windows since the interior fog that Holmes had created had dissipated. Then we both sat down to a wonderful meal.

During dinner Holmes regaled me with tales of the investigations we'd taken on together. I say together, though if what he told me was correct, and I have no reason to doubt that it was, he did the actual investigating while I did the fetching, carrying and admiring. Over the last couple of days, I'd already reached the conclusion that much of my current life had been spent admiring my companion and his accomplishments, and there was a part of me that wondered why I didn't resent apparently always taking the subordinate position.

But I'd also come to the conclusion that almost every person to come into contact with Sherlock Holmes was automatically placed in a subordinate position by the simple fact that he was more talented, more intelligent, and simply more capable than the average human being. So why should I resent something so inevitable? If my natural position in the universe was to orbit his star, then I was perfectly happy to bask in his light and equally pleased that he seemed to want, and possibly even need, my attention.

The tales he told sounded quite interesting, and I wished I could remember actually experiencing them, but, although he talked incessantly all through the meal about his methods of investigation and all the places, people and strange conundrums we'd encountered, none of it inspired the faintest spark of remembrance. Still there was pleasure in the listening, so listen I did with a feeling of perfect ease and contentment.

After dinner, we retreated to the fire and while he sat and smoked, I prowled the room examining anything that caught my eye. Standing upright in a corner, I spotted a violin case.

"You play the violin," I said, knowing it to be a fact. It wasn't a memory exactly, but it was a conviction nevertheless.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You are correct, but how did you determine that it was my violin and not yours?"

I shrugged. "I'm not sure. I just know it belongs to you. Would you play for me?"

"Of course, if you wish."

Rising to his feet, he tossed the remains of his cigarette into the fire and claimed his violin case from its resting place. Opening it up, he produced the instrument with a flourish, adjusted the bow and spent a bit of time over the tuning while I settled myself on the settee and prepared to listen.

Placing the violin beneath his chin, he glanced my way. "Do you have a request or should I play something you've enjoyed in the past?"

"Whatever you want to play will be fine. Thank you," I said with a smile, knowing full well that under the circumstances he didn't really expect me to choose a piece for him. Though, upon consideration, I realized that he might have been trying to trick me into blurting something out without thinking about it. If so, it didn't work, nothing came to mind, but as soon as he put his bow to the strings, the sound that filled the room felt achingly familiar to me.

I couldn't name it, but I remembered it perfectly. As he played I knew exactly where the melody would go next, when the music would swell and when it would fall. I even remembered what sort of feelings it invariably stirred to the surface of my being. I remembered almost everything about it, and I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting its familiar cadence sweep me up and float away with me, grateful to be enfolded in something that felt like home.

Holmes played with passion. Far more passion than he seemed to allow into other aspects of his life. He'd gone on and on at dinner, while he was expounding on his cases, about the superiority of reason and intellect over emotion and feeling, so much so that he was beginning to convince me that, despite the obvious concern he'd shown for me, there was little of emotion within him.

Now, however, I knew without a doubt that I had, as he might say, come to a conclusion before all the facts were in. For here was incontrovertible proof that there was a core of the most powerful emotion within him; clearly he kept it tightly contained, only allowing others occasional glimpses of it. I felt honored that I was apparently one of the few to whom he felt he could reveal this inner feeling.

He played for more than an hour without visibly tiring, moving from one piece to another with nary a pause, and I sat and absorbed it all like a grateful sponge. Some of the pieces were known to me and others weren't, but I enjoyed them all immensely. I leaned back against the settee and watched him from beneath lowered lids. Backlit by flame, he was a marvelous figure to behold. The fire's glow reflected off the smooth planes of the ever moving violin, gave fiery highlights to the deep blackness of his hair, glimmered on the silken lapels of his dressing gown and burned in the silvered brightness of his eyes.

His every movement was perfection. His long, slender fingers flew almost too fast for my eyes to follow as they pulled music from his instrument with more and greater urgency. As I watched, mesmerized, I found myself imagining those same wonderfully expressive hands gliding across my body as they slid so effortlessly along the strings. That's when it hit me like a stroke of lightning from a stormy sky. I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly so many of the feelings that I'd been confused about over the last few days made perfect sense. Although I didn't remember ever being in love before, I somehow knew without question that was what I was feeling now, and what I'd been feeling in so many ways ever since I'd arrived back at Baker Street.

My first instinct was to leap to my feet and embrace him, to tell him that I knew, that I remembered, but a cold wave of doubt and caution kept me frozen in place on the settee. As I watched him play on, it struck me quite forcefully that although I may have come to understand my feelings, I knew nothing of his. Was I in fact remembering a relationship that existed or one I only wished for? In point of fact, all I was sure of were my current feelings; I had no actual memories of the two of us together. Perhaps I'd simply fallen hard for him in the last couple of days, and what I was feeling wasn't a remembrance at all but something entirely new.

Along with my feelings came the sudden, swift knowledge that the love I felt wasn't acceptable to the larger world I lived in. Like knowing that Holmes played the violin, this knowledge felt less like memory and more like fact, and I was sure it was the truth. Romantic love between two men was deemed wrong in the eyes of polite society. Indeed, I was suddenly quite certain that polite society would be far less likely to raise its collective eyebrow if I'd fallen in love with my landlady or even the downstairs maid than it would be if it knew that I was in love with my very male, fellow lodger.

However, whether a relationship between us would be frowned upon by others was of less a concern to me at the moment than whether or not Holmes shared my feelings. After all, what difference would anyone else's opinion make if Holmes didn't love me as I loved him? I'd established to my satisfaction that he was most definitely a man of deep passion, but that didn't mean he felt the same passion for me, or any other person, that he did for his music. Indeed, he'd argued quite vociferously against love and the softer emotions, saying that they so often got in the way of logic, reason and the pursuit of a rational life.

Thinking it over, I realized that I had seen nothing from Holmes over the last couple of days to indicate that he felt anything deeper than friendship and concern for me, though I had no doubt that he felt that much. His intense desire for me to reclaim my memory could easily be explained away by his lingering feelings of guilt over my condition and a desire to return his household to the way it had been a scant week ago.

If I revealed my sudden recognition of desire for him and he had no reciprocal feelings, I could easily destroy the friendship that had quickly come to mean so much to me, and what would I do then? No, I couldn't say anything of my feelings to Holmes. I had to continue on as I was and hope that I'd remember something sooner or later that would make my path clear to me.

Suddenly I realized that the music had stopped, and I looked up to see Holmes standing there looking at me with a frown on his face. "Is something wrong, Watson?" he asked. "You look…disturbed."

"Disturbed? Oh no, by no means, dear fellow," I exclaimed as I sat up straighter and smiled at him. "Everything is just splendid. You play magnificently! Thank you so much for performing for me. I remembered many of the pieces I heard, though I still couldn't tell you their names. Particularly that first piece, that seemed very familiar, I found myself humming along as you played. What was it?" I knew I was babbling, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. I had to convince him that I was fine and he needn't question me anymore because I simply couldn't bear to reveal what had really been going through my mind mere moments ago.

"It was one of Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Worte_, one of your favorite pieces," said Holmes still watching me closely.

"Ah…" I searched for some further comment to make. "Well, it was wonderful," I added lamely.

He laid his violin down carefully and turned back to me. "Watson, surely you've learned by now that you cannot fool me this easily? Clearly something is bothering you. Now kindly tell me wh…"

I jumped to my feet. "Really, Holmes, I'm fine. I just think I'm still quite tired despite my nap. Our outing today might have been a bit too much for me. I think I'd better go on up to bed. Thank you again. I really enjoyed the music." As I was talking, I rounded the settee and made my way to the staircase. "Goodnight! I'll see you in the morning." I nodded in his general direction and swiftly made my escape.

"Goodnight, Watson. Sleep well," Holmes voice trailed me up the stairs, and I was quite certain from his tone that I hadn't fooled him at all. He knew I was hiding something, and that meant that while he was willing to defer his questions to tomorrow rather than call me a liar to my face, the odds were good that he would not forget to ask them again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Some text has been removed from this chapter in order to comply with Fanfiction's rating policy. The complete, unedited chapter is available at my homepage.

Comments are always welcome. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story.

**Part Three: The Conclusion**

The next day dawned bleak and wet and my head began to ache as soon as I opened my eyes. Just like every other time I'd awakened in that bed, I couldn't quite recall my dreams, though I was firmly convinced that I _had_ dreamed and that once again Holmes was the one I dreamed about. After my epiphany of the evening before, however, I wasn't sure that I needed to remember my dreams in order to make an excellent guess as to their contents.

A glance at the clock on my mantel, told me that I'd slept a bit later than usual, but even so, the pain in my head made it difficult for me to drag myself up and get dressed. I persevered, but, in the end, I left off my coat and tie and shrugged into a dressing gown that I found in my wardrobe before heading downstairs with slippers on my feet.

I found Holmes still sitting at the breakfast table reading a newspaper. He looked up as I entered, and I really hoped that he was not going to start up again where he'd left off the night before, because I did not feel up to avoiding his questions, and telling him the truth was something I simply could not do.

I needn't have feared, however. Apparently I looked even worse than I felt, because he lowered his newspaper, took one look at me and exclaimed, "Good heavens, Watson! Whatever is the matter? You look positively gray."

"I awoke with a rather detestable headache, that's all. Eating breakfast will probably help."

I made my way to the table and took my seat. After a moment's hesitation, Holmes raised his newspaper once more and said quietly, "I hope you're right."

While I ate, he continued to read, shooting enigmatic glances at me over the newspaper from time to time. He didn't speak however, and I found that the combination of food, a strong cup of coffee, and some companionable silence did seem to help my headache which had subsided to a much more manageable level by the time my plate was clear.

"Is there anything of interest in the paper today?" I asked, searching around for a neutral topic.

Holmes closed the newspaper quickly and tossed it aside with a shake of his head. "No, London is totally devoid of anything interesting at the moment, just the usual social scandals, a rather tawdry murder, common variety political wrangling, and a few petty thefts."

I smiled. "Nothing worthy of your talents, you mean."

A fluid smile flitted across his face and was gone in the blink of an eye. "No, but then I am not in the market for a case at the moment. I told you that I was going to devote all of my attention to helping you regain your memories, and I meant it, however dismal my showing has been so far."

"On the contrary, Holmes, you've been a great help to me. Much of what I saw yesterday seemed slightly familiar to me, and I definitely remembered the bench in Hyde Park and the carriage accident."

"And the violin music," he added swiftly. "You did say you recalled one or two of the pieces."

"Yes," I admitted cautiously, realizing that, quite accidently, I'd strayed onto dangerous ground.

"Did my playing spark any other memories, not directly related to the music itself?" he asked shrewdly.

I sat back in my chair and twisted my napkin between my hands. "Nothing definite," I admitted, which was perfectly true. I didn't actually _remember_ anything at all, which was my main difficulty. If I knew for certain how Holmes felt about me, I would know how to act and what to say, but without that answer, I was left wandering around in a mire, one misstep away from disaster.

"I vaguely remembered you playing for me in the past, but it was an impression only. I can't recall any details," I added, hoping desperately that he would let the subject drop.

"I see," said Holmes, and for the briefest moment I thought I saw disappointment in his eyes, though he looked away before I could be sure. After a pause, he asked, "And how is your headache? Did eating help? Your color has improved."

I nodded, grateful for the reprieve. "Yes, it's not gone, but it's much better. Thank you."

"I think the dressing on your forehead should be changed, don't you?"

I touched my forehead gently and grimaced. "I suppose it should."

Holmes got up and retrieved a black medical bag and a hand mirror. He gave the mirror to me and began unwinding the bandage that encircled my brow. His fingers were gentle, his touch sure, and I enjoyed the brief moment of closeness. When he finished and my forehead was bare, he said, "There, Doctor, what's your professional opinion? Does it need to be wrapped up again?"

I held up the mirror and stared at my face. My forehead was deeply purpled with bruising, and over my left eye was a partially healed gash that had been expertly closed with four very neat looking stitches. "Whoever stitched up the cut did a very nice job of it," I said quite sincerely.

"Yes, almost as neat a job as you could do yourself, I'd say," said Holmes in agreement.

"The stitches will need to come out pretty soon, to minimize any disfigurement, but I don't suppose I'll be able to avoid adding another scar to my collection," I said ruefully. I'd already noted several smaller scars on my person in addition to the spectacular one on my shoulder. Clearly my military service had left its mark on me in the most literal manner.

"Once it's faded somewhat it won't be overly noticeable," Holmes replied. "Perhaps you should change the way you wear your hair and allow some of it to drape rakishly over your left brow a bit more."

I laughed, somewhat unwisely, and winced at the resulting twinge of pain. "I'll consider it," I replied. "I think I can manage with a much lighter bandage."

Holmes handed me the medical bag and reclaimed the mirror. Then he slipped into the seat beside me and held it up in front of my face. "Would you like to do the honors, then, Doctor? You are the expert, and it is your medical bag."

"The expert, yes," I murmured as I looked down at the black satchel I now held in my hands. Of course the medical bag would be mine, I'd accepted that I was a doctor, it was only logical that I would have a bag of instruments that I used when I practiced my profession. I wasn't sure why I hadn't sought it out before, but now that I had it, would I remember what to do with what it contained?

Determined to find out, I opened the bag and looked inside. There were a variety of instruments all of which I was happy to realize that I could put a name to. I pulled out a stethoscope, a scalpel, a syringe, a thermometer, a pair of tweezers, and a couple of hemostats, and I knew what to do with each of them. Greatly encouraged, I delved back into the bag. There was also a case containing a couple of needles and some surgical thread, rolls of bandages, scissors, vials of various useful substances, and a small bottle of brandy.

After handling each item carefully, I repacked what I didn't need and deftly re-dressed my wound with a much lighter bandage. When I looked at Holmes, he lowered the mirror and cocked his head slightly to one side. "An excellent job, Doctor. How did it feel to bandage a wound again?"

"Quite natural," I admitted. "All I had to do was look at the contents of my bag and I seemed to instinctively know what each item was used for and how to manipulate it. I guess not all memory returns with the horrible vividness of the cab accident."

"That's probably for the best," he said. "Your memory may very well return to you gradually over a long period of time, but I can't help thinking there might be a single trigger that would bring more of it back all at once. We just haven't hit on it yet."

He set the mirror down on the table and returned all his attention to me. "I have done a bit of research since your accident, but unfortunately, none of it has provided me with the answer we've been seeking. The acknowledged experts in this area all seem to have widely differing thoughts on the subject. It appears that there isn't one single effective treatment for amnesia. Nor is there any guarantee that memory can be restored. Sometimes it comes back and sometimes it doesn't, and fairly often, some memories will return while others never do. Often it's the memories that occurred just before and after the injury that are permanently lost. Though in your case, memories of the accident itself did return."

"Yes, some of them, but they still aren't clear. They're more emotional impressions than coherent memories, and I have no real memory of the aftermath at all. The first thing I can truly recall is leaving the hospital. My memory of what happened during my treatment is quite vague, and I have absolutely no idea how I arrived there in the first place. Even most of my wanderings across London aren't really clear to me." I sighed. "Mainly I just remember feeling very lost and alone."

"Well, you are not alone any longer," said Holmes quietly.

"No, I'm not, and I'm very grateful for that," I answered him warmly.

The silence that followed this exchange was somewhat weighty, and Holmes stirred restlessly in his seat before speaking again with a distinct air of disgruntlement. "The study of the human brain and how it works is truly a very inexact science."

With a smile, I got to my feet and crossed to the desk to replace the medical bag. "Not your sort of thing at all then."

Holmes got up and headed for the fireplace, where he took a cigarette from a case on the mantle and lit it before turning back to me. "I do prefer things to be more quantifiable. Problems for which there are no concrete solutions, and no clearly defined path you can follow to give you an answer, are maddeningly frustrating. I work best when I can gather evidence, sift it through my brain, weight it carefully, and select the clues that will lead me to the truth. Fact, reason, logic…these are the tools I'm used to working with. This is where my expertise lies."

I set the medical bag down and sat in the chair in front of the desk. "And none of that is helping with this situation, is it?"

Holmes blew a stream of smoke into the air and shook his head. "No, my dear Watson, it is not. I very much fear I am out of my element in dealing with this problem, though you must not think that I have given up."

"Don't worry, Holmes," I said as cheerfully as I could. "There may not be one definitive answer that will return my memories to me, but that doesn't mean that they won't return. Many of them have already, and I know you haven't given up. You never do until you solve a problem." And as soon as I said those words, I knew them to be true.

Idly I opened the drawer in the desk and glanced inside. A pistol lay atop some papers, and it was the surprise of coming across a weapon when I'd thought only to find pens, paper and ink bottles that caused me to be slightly taken aback. After a moment's hesitation, I picked up the gun, and as I handled it, I felt that it was mine and not Holmes's.

I turned and held the weapon up to Holmes. "This is mine, isn't it?" I phrased it in the form of a question, but I was actually seeking confirmation for that of which I was already quite certain.

Holmes joined me at the desk. "Yes, it's your service revolver. You keep it in excellent shape and having it has come in handy once or twice during our cases. Can you remember using it?" he asked the question with a note of hesitancy in his tone as if perhaps these were not the memories he wanted me to recall.

Suddenly not at all certain that I wished to remember actually firing the thing, I thrust it back into the drawer and slid it shut. As I did so, I felt Holmes's hand close gently on my shoulder, and was grateful for its steadying warmth. "I don't have any exact memories concerning the revolver," I said. "I just somehow knew it was mine."

"Well, here is something that might amuse you," said Holmes, deftly changing the subject by pulling forward a small stack of magazines.

I picked one up. "The Strand magazine?"

"If you look inside, I believe you will find a familiar name among the list of contributors."

He was right, and I was quite astonished to discover a novelization of one of Holmes's cases apparently written by my own hand.

"Perhaps reading what you yourself have committed to paper will spark more memories than my much drier recitations of last evening produced. You seem to have a flair for writing, though you have shown a rather distressing tendency to romanticize people and events while trivializing the true facts of a case. Make no mistake as you read these, my dear Watson, they are works of fiction with only the merest kernel of truth at their heart."

Amused, I glanced up at him with a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good man," he said firmly as he released my shoulder, clapped it companionably and turned away from the desk. "Now, I must go out for a time, so I will leave you to your reading and, with luck, I will see you at luncheon."

I quite happily spent the rest of the morning sitting by the fire and reading the articles in the Strand. There was a definite familiarity to them, and although I didn't actually remember writing them, I found myself occasionally recalling a certain turn of phrase, or the way a particular paragraph was constructed, and I found, even without having been given all the details, that I always had an inkling of what was going to happen next. I finished my reading with a smile and found that my headache had completely disappeared.

Holmes had not returned by the time I had read through the small stack of magazines, and I got up and stretched muscles that had stiffened while I sat. My shoulder, in particular, ached dully, and I had a feeling that it often did on a rainy day. I crossed to the window and looked out. The rain was coming down in sheets, and I hoped that wherever he'd gone, Holmes was safe and dry.

Finding myself at loose ends, I drifted around the now familiar room and ended up in front of Holmes's bedroom door. This was the only room in the flat that I hadn't been in yet. Curious, I turned the knob and, finding it unlocked, I pushed it open and took a look inside, hoping he would forgive my effrontery.

Holmes's room was every bit as cluttered as the sitting room. Papers of all sizes, loose and tied in bundles, untidily covered the top of a small table, spread themselves across his mantel, interspersed with an assortment of pipes, tobacco pouches, penknives and all manner of small objects, and were piled high on the top of a large tin box that stood near the foot of his bed.

No papers marred the bed itself, however, which stood central in the room, and was larger than mine with posts that were sinuously carved. His dressing gown was casually draped over the rail at its foot, and without pausing to think about it, I crossed the room and brushed my hand gently over the silky fabric as I'd wanted to do while he was wearing it.

As I reached out and grasped one of the bedposts, running my fingers up its smooth polished surface, I had a sudden sharp vision of Holmes lying on this bed as naked as I'd yearned to see him. He was every bit as beautiful as I'd imagined him to be, and instinctively I knew that this was no wishful figment of my desirous mind. This was Holmes as he truly was, as I _knew_ him to be. I shivered, and my hand gripped the bedpost more tightly as other, similar, memories filled my mind in a rush.

Suddenly I remembered years of passionate caresses, ardent kisses, and all manner of highly intimate moments. I recalled incidents of deep tenderness, the sharing of confidences, working together, the arguments, the apologies, in short, I remembered all of the things that make up a loving relationship, and I had my answer at last.

The sound of a step in the doorway intruded into my consciousness, and I turned to see Holmes standing there, his hair and clothing damp from the rain and a cautious, questioning expression in his gray eyes.

"Watson?" he whispered softly.

Just as I hadn't before him, it was clear that he didn't quite dare to ask the question that was foremost in his mind, but the subject no longer held any fear for me, for now I knew the truth, and my life was mine once more.

I smiled warmly and turned to face him, letting my hand slowly slip down the bedpost which had become my anchor in a sea of uncertainty. "Since I've been here I've wondered why I didn't feel at home in my room, sleeping in my bed. Now I know the answer. It's because that's not where I sleep, is it? I usually spend my nights here in this bed…with you."

"You remember?" Holmes's voice was a whispered prayer and his eyes gleamed with cautious hope. From his expression I could tell that as much as he wanted to think this meant the end of his nightmare, he wasn't yet certain he could believe it. And I was determined to wipe any last doubt from his heart.

"Yes, my dear Holmes. I remember living here, sleeping here, and loving you with everything I am capable of, and I remember you doing the same for me. That's really all I need to remember. Isn't it?" I spread my arms wide in silent invitation.

Unfettered joy spread across his features, and I wondered how I could ever have forgotten such a lovely expression or ever doubted that he had the deep capacity to love. Because his feelings were written so plainly on his face at the moment that anyone would know the truth simply by looking at him. Not only could Sherlock Holmes love, but I now knew for a certainty that he loved me every bit as much as I loved him.

I'm not sure who moved first or faster, but it hardly mattered, for in the end we found ourselves clasped in each other's arms, and I knew I was finally back where I belonged. I kissed him with every drop of passion I held within me, loving the feel of those perfect lips pressed against mine, reveling as his clever tongue urgently caressed my own, and we dueled for supremacy in a battle where neither of us could possibly be the loser.

I slid one hand behind his dark head, pulling him closer, while my other skimmed down the planes of his torso to rest in the curve of his lower back. When he released my mouth and began to kiss his way down my throat, I threw my head back and gasped in delight at the remarkably wonderful feeling of having his body once again pressed tightly against mine.

Suddenly, he drew away for a brief moment, just long enough to pull me back across the room, around the corner of the bedpost and push me down onto the bed. Then he threw himself on top of me and his weight pressed me deep into the mattress. We lay like that staring, eye to eye, for the space of a heartbeat, before we both seemed to decide at the same time that the other was wearing far too many clothes. The next few minutes were spent swiftly divesting each other of dressing gown, shirts, trousers, undergarments and every other scrap of clothing until we were face to face once more, entirely stripped of everything but our desire for each other.

Afterwards, as we lay curled together, his head on my shoulder, my leg thrust between his, I knew peace as I hadn't known it for days.

"Watson, do you have the slightest idea how much I've missed you?" said Holmes suddenly, as he traced my mouth with a gentle finger deliberately brushing through the bristles of my moustache, making it tingle and drawing a smile to my lips.

"Those days without you, when I had no knowledge of where you were or what had happened to you, were agonizing. Just the thought that I might have lost you forever, and never have known what happened, chilled me to my very core. I devoted my every waking moment to tracking you down, but it did no good! I'd solved hundreds of cases where my success wasn't half as important to me, but this time, when you were counting on me, my feelings kept getting in the way of my ability to reason."

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I said quite sincerely because the very last thing I'd ever wish to do was cause him pain. "I came home as soon as I could."

"Yes, of course you did, my dear fellow, and I never meant to imply otherwise, but when you returned and didn't remember me, I realized that even though you were here again, you were still lost to me, and that led to an entirely different sort of agony. I knew I simply had to find a way to get you back completely, but retrieving lost memories isn't as simple as finding a misplaced necklace, catching a murderer, or recovering stolen goods. I was ill prepared for this sort of quest."

He pushed himself up on his elbow and gazed down at me solemnly. "I was afraid, my dear Watson. Afraid that despite my best efforts, I might fail, and if I did, that I'd never have you, all of you, with me like this again. I am not a man who is accustomed to dealing with my own fear, and that thought terrified me more than any other ever has."

I reached up and ran my hand along the side of his jaw. "Oh, Holmes, I'm sorry I put you through that."

He raised his hand and captured mine, bringing it to his lips. He kissed it gently and, laying it against his cheek, he smiled a slightly more mischievous smile as if he wished to lighten the mood a bit.

"That was another trial, you know." He ran one long finger down my forearm, making me shiver once again. "Having you here, so close, and not being able to touch you has been incredibly difficult. You must promise never to do anything of this sort again. My nerves simply won't stand it."

I nodded and solemnly promised, as if both of us weren't quite well aware of how futile such a promise was.

"When you returned from your ordeal, as I sat and talked with you, I was struck by the most absurd notion, and I could not banish it no matter how hard I tried. Your clothes were rumpled and torn, and you'd lost your collar and tie. You really were a mess, my dear fellow. I was quite concerned."

"I know." I gazed up at him fondly, enjoying just being able to look at him to my heart's content.

Holmes continued in a softer tone and his eyes darkened as he looked down at me, "With your shirt open at the neck, I found myself constantly noticing this sensitive spot at the base of your throat. Just here…" He reached out and touched my neck gently. "…all I could think about was how you always sighed in pleasure when I did this…" His fingertip skimmed lightly along my collarbone and dipped down into the soft hollow of flesh beside it as I willingly sighed in response. "And I desperately wanted to make you sigh again."

"I missed you, too, you know, Holmes. Even before I understood what my feelings were, I knew that something wasn't right. Then when I finally realized that I loved you, I was afraid to say anything. Afraid that what I was feeling wasn't a memory at all, but was something new, something I had no way of knowing whether you shared."

"That's what you wouldn't tell me last night, wasn't it. I had hoped that the music might draw out some of your memories."

"Oh, it did, most definitely. Ever since I laid eyes on you again, I've been having feelings for you that didn't fit with thinking of you simply as a friend. It was while I was watching you play that I suddenly knew that what I'd been feeling was love, but I was terrified that you might not love me back. I didn't know what to do. If I admitted my feelings and you didn't feel the same way, I could lose you forever. I didn't think I could face that, so I held back, hoping that something would come back to me that would show me what the true nature of our relationship was."

"And it was seeing this bed that brought it all back to you?" he asked.

"Well, not all… I still don't remember everything, but the bed was definitely the missing piece of the puzzle and seeing it, touching it, gave me back my memories of you and of us together."

Holmes bent down and kissed me once more. "Then I for one have never owed so much to a simple piece of furniture."

I smiled my agreement, and as we lay together in our bed and listened to the cold rain lashing itself against the window pane, I closed my eyes and knew for a fact that at last I'd found my way home.


End file.
